


Smoke the Pain Away

by NikoNotHere



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, M/M, One-Sided Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 08:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21371344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikoNotHere/pseuds/NikoNotHere
Summary: Richard is hiding on the roof outside his room, smoking to try and keep his mind off his recent humiliation in front of the band. He can't seem to stop the choking feeling rising in his chest; luckily, someone comes to talk him down.
Relationships: Richard Kruspe/Till Lindemann
Comments: 6
Kudos: 47





	Smoke the Pain Away

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings/notice for anxiety/panic attacks and chain-smoking/former drug abuse.

Richard took a long drag of his cigarette as he looked up at the night sky. His legs dangled over the roof's edge, swaying in time to an internal beat of his making. His hands itched to be playing his guitar, but it was still being repaired, last he checked. His fingers twitched as he thought up a new riff, tapping the shingles beside his leg rhythmically. The itch to play turned into an all-too-familiar feeling of overpowering need, which then turned into compulsion. He made a short grunting sound that ended in a sigh, then pulled out another cigarette. The sky was especially dark tonight.

He'd left his compulsion for heroin in the past, but chain smoking had quickly taken its place. As he crushed his current cigarette onto the roof and lit the 3rd one of the night-- so far, anyway, he thought bitterly-- he heard a tapping on his door. He turned to the window he'd climbed out of and looked back into his room. 

"It's open," he said toward the door, then turned back to the sky as he lit up.

The door opened tentatively; he could hear the creaky hinges. 

"Reesh?"

"On the roof," he called without looking back. He knew who it was; no need to check. 

He grunted as he realized this cigarette wasn't helping either. He wondered absently if it was going to be another whole pack tonight.

"Ah, there you are," came a familiar voice from his room

"Yup. Here I am." He still didn't look back. A gnawing feeling was rising in his chest and he refused to acknowledge it.

A long minute passed in silence before Flake coughed awkwardly behind him, at a loss for words somehow. It was very unusual for the keyboardist.

Richard sighed as he quickly finished off the third cigarette with no feeling of relief. He crushed it against the shingles as well before dropping it into a mug he used as an ashtray, then finally turned to see his band mate standing and looking up at him through the window.

He was wearing a poorly fitting t shirt (most shirts fit him poorly), sweatpants, his usual glasses and ugly flip flops. Richard couldn't help but think of how small he looked down there. It was rare for Flake to look so... vulnerable.

"Well?" Richard asked.

Flake shifted his sandaled feet and clasped his hands together. He was always fidgety when he was being serious. Normally his actions were direct, confident and overbearing, generally giving way to excited exercise and productivity. The man couldn't sit still to save his life. Now, the random movements just came off as nervous tics.

"Well, I wanted to just come by, you know, and see how you were doing."

Richard pulled out cigarette number 4 and flicked his lighter open.

"Obviously I'm fine." He took a long drag, that gnawing feeling growing into a tightening ball around his middle. It was beginning to bother his breathing. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and tried to ignore the weight on his chest.

"Richard, you know I know about the letter." 

Getting right to the fucking point, Richard mused. That was definitely Flake for you.

Richard snorted. "Is that why you came up here? Wanted to stir up shit some more? Or maybe you wanted to tell me how to handle that mess. You really like being in the middle of everyone's fucking issues, don't you, Flake?"

It was a low blow, and Richard knew it. Flake was nothing but kind when it came to helping his band mates. But that horrible tightness in his chest was threatening to cut off his breathing, and he didn't know how to curb it. Lashing out seemed like a decent momentary stall.

"I-- no, of course not! I'd never try to make things worse." Flake sounded legitimately hurt.

"So, why? Needed to come make sure I don't do something stupid, so you're not stuck looking for another guitarist before the tour?" Just keep talking. Keep stalling, even if it's harsh. There's only so much tightness a chest can maintain, right? It's not like there was an actual elephant sitting on him. It would fade eventually. It always did. 

Cigarette 5 slipped into his mouth.

Flake seemed like he was searching for an answer, as he didn't reply right away. Richard looked back at him and immediately felt extremely uncomfortable. He turned away again. Seeing his old friend struggle for words was weird, especially Flake. Knowing he was part of that struggle made it worse.

"I just wanted to talk to you."

"Still doesn't tell me *why* you're here," he muttered, noticing his pace had slowed a bit on his 5th cigarette. "Talking can mean anything. Talking is what got me into this mess."

"I'm here because I know what you've been feeling."

"No shit, Sherlock. Everyone knows, thanks to Till's big fucking mouth--"

"No," Flake interjected, "I mean, more than just that."

Richard waited for him to continue, blowing smoke out at the inky sky. It drifted away in ribbons and then disappeared into nothingness.

"I... I've had that weight before," Flake said finally. 

Richard paused with his cigarette midway to his mouth. "Weight?" He took a very long drag.

"Yeah. Weight. I know about it. It comes suddenly, crushes your insides and cuts your breathing, and every time you wonder if today's the day it finally squeezes you hard enough to kill you. That weight."

Richard's ears burned and he hurriedly finished his 5th cigarette. He didn't like how direct Flake was being. It was normal for him to be blunt, but it was usually superficial. Being so emotionally deep was very out of character, and it unnerved him. 

"You know what I'm talking about, Reesh."

"Don't pretend to read my thoughts," Richard snarled. "You're a friend, not a fucking psychic. We go to a real therapist, not fucking "Doctor Lorenz."

"I'm sorry," Flake offered hurriedly. "You're just really… projecting. It takes effort *not* to notice."

"Mmm, I'll bet." Sarcasm dripped from his words. Cigarette number six was in the process of being lit when his lighter sputtered and ran out of fluid. "Dammit."

Richard climbed up from his roof spot and swung himself back down into his room, choosing not to look at Flake as he skulked by. 

"Where are you--"

"Matches," he interrupted with a growl. "I figured you weren't finished interrogating me yet. Gonna settle in with the rest of the pack." He dug through his desk until he found a book of matches, then made his way back to the window. For all of his faults, he never smoked inside, regardless of how strong his compulsions or how tight the pressure got. He lit a match as he reached the window, disgusted that his anxiety was so obvious to Flake.

"Oh. Well, you know how I feel about you smoking so heavily--"

"Yeah, actually, I do," Richard snapped, finally turning to his band mate. Flake was so small and unassuming when startled, but that didn't dissuade Richard from his sudden irritation.

He stuck a finger in Flake's face. "We all know *exactly* how you feel, constantly. You give us no choice. We don't get a break. You constantly talk about our flaws like some sort of emotional wizard, and what we need to do to change, and how great things would be if everyone were different and perfect and happy and--FUCK."

The match he'd struck a moment ago had burned down to his fingertips and scorched them. He dropped the burnt match and flailed his hand in pain. He'd been burned onstage plenty, but it still hurt. Not to mention his wounded pride.

Flake reached a hand out to him, concerned, but stopped as Richard turned and suddenly backhanded him. 

Flake backstepped, his glasses flying off his face. He raised an arm up to his face protectively. He looked both horrified and hurt, his eyes wide. 

Goddammit, Richard thought, Flake looked like he was going to cry. 

Richard felt immediately guilty. He snapped his mouth shut and turned away, sinking to the floor and cradling his scorched hand.

Fuck, what was the matter with him?

"Flake, I'm so sorry," he muttered, his head hung in shame. "I didn't mean it. I don't know why I did that. I don't know why I do anything anymore. I can't fucking stop "

Flake, having gathered his glasses from the floor, eased carefully over next to him. He stood next to his friend, a concerned look replacing the previously startled one

"It's all right. I wasn't lying before when I said I know how it feels." He held a hand down to Richard.

Richard looked up, then grabbed the hand and hoisted himself up next to his friend. 

"I know I shouldn't be acting like this. I just don't know how to make it stop. I feel so lost, all the time now. I can't breathe, I can't think, and I never know what to do. Till just made everything 100 times worse. Like the candle on a giant shit cake.'

Flake put his hands on the guitarist's shoulders and forced him to look him in the eye. Richard didn't avoid his gaze this time.

"I know it's hard. I understand. This isn't something that makes sense or is easy to control, so it makes you frustrated. Add on that shit with Till, and I'm impressed you're still functioning sanely at all."

Richard nodded miserably and tried to look away, but Flake moved to keep his gaze locked on his friend.

"Just because you feel like everyone is against you doesn't make it true. In fact, those are the times you need everyone else the most. It doesn't make sense, but that's just how it goes. We're always going to be here for you, no matter what. We're best friends, and we don't take that position lightly. Even if there's issues that come up, we deal with them as a team, Till included."

At the mention of his friend's name, Richard frowned deeply. 

"What am I going to do about this mess? I barely want to look at him, much less spend another 5 months touring with him. He could have just said no. That's all he needed to say, and I'd have left it alone. But no, Till is Till, and has to make a grand spectacle about everything. A dramatic letter "accidentally" left for everyone to read, detailing exactly why I was "just a drunk lay" and can never be anything more. In what world is that the right thing to do?"

Flake listened silently, another rarity for him. He knew Richard simply needed to let it out. And he did.

"If I'd known this was going to end up so fucked, I'd never have done it in the first place. Fuck me, I should have known better. It was so stupid of me. Now I can't be in the same room as him anymore without my chest seizing up and giving me fucking panic attacks. Fuck this."

Richard stopped, slightly out of breath from his rant. 

Flake merely looked at him, then asked softly, "Do you regret it?"

A very long minute passed silently between the two, and it was plain on Richard's face that he was struggling for the answer. 

He remembered the soft touches, the laughter, the sloppy kisses in between the intimacy, the fire ignited between them when it became more animalistic and raw, and then seeing Till's hard, normally stony face melt into a soft smile as he ran a finger over his lips when they were both spent. They'd been happy. It truly had been perfect.

"No," Richard finally confessed. "No, I don't regret it. It was something I've wanted since first meeting Till, and it was… good. Perfect, even. And he did warn me it was only one night."

Richard sighed miserably, then lamented, "I suppose I just hoped I could change his mind, y'know? That maybe after, he'd see me differently."

Flake reached his hand over and patted Richard's shoulder.  
"As you say," Flake began, "Till is Till. He can't seem to live his life without grandiose drama. That said, he's confided in me a lot. He's a very conflicted man, Richard; not just about this, but about a lot of things. He has a lot he needs to work through. While I think you should give him his space, and time to figure himself out, I don't think you should abandon all hope."

Richard's ears burned at that. "Yeah?"

Flake smiled and gave his shoulder a final pat. "Yeah. Just treat him as you did before, as a good friend and band mate. Eventually, time will show what needs to be done. It isn't a great solution, but it's what has to be. We need you both, and you both need this band, and each other."

Richard nodded slowly. "Thank you, Flake. And, I'm sorry. You all don't deserve to be treated shitty, even if I can't always control it. I want to be there for you all as much as you're there for me. I'm sorry I hit you."

Flake shrugged and gave a half smile. "You don't hit that hard; don't worry."

Richard felt the painfully tight knot begin to slowly release in his chest, bringing with it a relief so strong he felt he could almost grab it. He was left with contented resignation. Not an absence of pain or compulsion: those were still there. But he felt right again. The world wasn't crashing down onto him. Till wasn't a soulless monster. His guitar would be fixed soon. 

Flake looked Richard over carefully. "How do you feel?

"A good bit better. Thank you."

"You don't need to thank me. It's just what friends do. And don't let on that I've mentioned Till's struggles. He'd beat the shit out of me, and his hits actually hurt."

Flake smiled his crooked, goofy grin, and Richard smiled as well.  
"I promise I won't." 

Flake then turned and ambled out of Richard's room.

"Oh yeah," he turned halfway out of the door, "the shop finished the last repair on your guitar this afternoon. They're dropping it off tomorrow."

Richard grinned broadly. "Thanks, Flake."


End file.
